The Tour de France is over.
Finally. Thank God. The Nibali,
Believe it or Not, Tour. Nibali
dominated from start to finish but we have learned with cycling that if
something is too good to be true, it usually isn’t . Fool me once shame on you. Fool me seven times, shame on Lance. So I will reserve judgment and wait for the
testing and hope against hope. Again.
Contador and Froome kept falling and eventually had to give
up. Talansky created a new word for courageous indefatigable
stick-to-it-tive-ness. He pulled a
Talansky. He didn’t quit. He didn’t give up after falling three
times. He finished last, with class,
style and heart. Than he could not go
on. Sagan could not beat the huge German
sprinter Krisstoff and never won a stage despite finishing second numerous
times and winning the Green Jersey. American
T.J. Van Garderen would have had a podium if he ate correctly on the rest day
and not bonked in the Pyrenees. Ate
what you might ask. Kiwi Jack Bauer lead
one stage for 200 km , only to be caught by the peloton and sprinters in the
last 10 meters, as usually happens. Big surprise. At least he gave it his best shot and then
broke down.
Not that I don’t love it.
Not that the sound of those two classy British chaps, flawlessly announcing
the three week race, have not become the sound of July and defined my summers
for years. Not that the exploits of
these athletes, riding 2000 miles in three weeks at 30 mph, does not continue
to astound me.
I am so astounded that I tried to ride every day after the live
morning broadcast, in simpatico and synchronicity, with sympathy and empathy. I would watch their massive thighs churning
up incredibly steep mountains, pushing gigantic gears with unbelievable accelerations. I
would imagine myself gliding with the pack, sucking along in the peloton as it
transforms into a writhing snake, with a mind, heart and soul of its own.
Then I would go out on my bikes and ride with inspired
emulation of my heroes. I’d ride the
mountains, the roads or the trails in my orange jersey, the maillot l’orange,
reserved for the oldest guy in the peloton.
I’d ride to the hardware store, to work and to lunch or thru the forest,
mountains and back roads. I would fearlessly
short circuit traffic circles, bomb around blind turns and weather the
cobblestones and ruts in the rain. Not 100
miles a day but I would hammer for an hour or three, standing on the hills and
tucking the descents.
I got tired, it got old, I started dreading it and hating
the bike. I took a few rest days and
rode my motorcycle around with people on the back, to mimic the impressive race
officials and media bikes that keep up with the Tour while hauling a cameraman and
camera over the entire circuit. Finally
on the last day I bonked and dragged my sorry ass around for a few hours and limped
home like the last guy to finish on the Champs-Élysées. It’s obsessive, it’s
boring, it’s hard. It is time to do
something different, like golf, tennis or SUP.
The Tour of Utah Starts next week and I have to be ready to ride. Again.
The Tour of Utah Starts next week and I have to be ready to ride. Again.
